


love languages

by captain_emmajones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Captain Swan January Joy 2021 (Once Upon a Time), F/M, Fluff, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_emmajones/pseuds/captain_emmajones
Summary: Post 4x11. During the six weeks of peace.It all starts with Mary Margaret reading a stupid article about love languages at breakfast, and before she knows it, Emma finds herself asking Hook his as they are stargazing by the docks.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 13
Kudos: 87





	love languages

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Here is my contribution for CSJJ. Big thanks to the lovely lovely mods for organizing this, to the CSJJ discourse server and its wonderful ladies, to carpedzem for cheering me on always and to profdanglaisstuff for beta'ing this <3 
> 
> Happy reading!

  
  


A veil of mist hangs low in this January night sky; it dances around a crescent moon wreathed in a halo of silver light. The moon is peering at the scene, down below, by Storybrooke’s harbour. 

And what a scene, my dear...

Two figures dressed in warm clothes are sitting on a bench, wrapped up in one of those large checkered blankets that they share; the taller one seems resolute on examining the stars in the night sky, brows furrowed in a focused expression and fingers clenched around a spyglass. 

That is quite unfortunate, thinks the moon, for the clouds are impish that night and stubbornly hide their secrets. His companion sits cross-legged at his side, one hand cupping her chin, eyes set on the man’s silhouette and the moon wonders what could possibly be so interesting on this man’s face for the woman not to look up at her. 

There is a shift then, in the woman’s composure, and the moon sees one gentle hand grab the man’s arm as a cloud of white smoke escapes her lips.

The moon winces; she knows the silence is about to be shattered. 

“Hey, what’s your love language?” 

This stupid question has been on the tip of Emma’s tongue all day, tingling and burning, and Mary Margaret and the article she read aloud at breakfast are entirely to blame for it.

Emma is lucky that the rum they drank at dinner with her parents is still coloring their cheeks red, and that a flame seems to be licking up her throat, because it is a delicious burn and saves her the embarrassment. 

“Sorry. Say that again, Swan?” 

He does not turn around. As something mischievous stands up in Emma’s chest and pouts, Emma wants to groan that there will be no stars to be seen tonight. How dare he not pay attention to her when she let herself be lured by his talks of “star-gazing”?

Instead, she admires the hint of red coloring the apple of his cheeks and the wisps of breath he exhales calmly through his nose. 

“I mean, what makes you feel loved?” she asks again, and she tries to sound more annoyed than she actually is. 

Which is, actually, not at all, but he most absolutely does not need to know that. 

The expected result occurs as he swiftly shifts to gaze at her, his blue eyes flashing in the dimness, and that sinful tongue licks a pattern across his lips. 

“Swan, are you drunk?” he teases, smirking a bit, but with a lot of tenderness. 

She chuckles as he clicks his telescope shut without breaking their gaze. 

Her legs do feel heavy as lead, and her head deceptively light as a cloud, but that she won’t tell him, not on any account. 

“Am not.” And if Emma’s head lolls to his side, terribly tempted by his welcoming shoulders, it must be because of gravity or something. 

But she does not cave in, and she raises her eyes to see his entire face crinkling up in a delightful, devilish way and Emma wishes she could kiss each little spot of skin the moon dabbles light on. 

“ _ Yes, _ you are. Should have watched you and Mary Margaret’s cocktails.” 

While Emma does think there is something to be said about her mother’s cocktails, she still rolls her eyes and frowns, even as stubborn laughter keeps bubbling up inside her throat and is making it difficult to keep a straight face. “Just answer the question!” And her fist gently bumps against his shoulder for good measure. 

He dramatically sighs next to her, one eyebrow quirking up in that peculiar way that makes her toes curl, and she hates him for it but she also wishes that he may never stop. 

“...What was the question again?” 

She exhales a groan of discontent. “Killian!” 

“Emma?” 

Another groan. He will be the death of hers. “Your love language! What is it?” 

“My love language, you ask? Well, mmmh, let me think.” And as he pretends to ponder, tapping his fingers against his red, red lips, tap, tap, _ tap _ , Emma finds herself leaning towards him, against her will, magnetized. 

But she catches herself and proceeds to frown harder, hand closing around the cold wooden bench instead of the lapel of his coat.  _ They are trying to have a conversation, for fuck’s sake.  _

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Emma blinks because she cannot stop looking at his mouth. 

“Ah. But Swan, we have a problem.” 

“Do we?” 

His lips, over hers, now. Forever, preferably. The delicate shadow dropped by his eyelashes onto his cheekbones is infuriating. 

“Yes. As a matter of fact, although I am familiar with many languages, I’ve never heard of that love language theory of yours.”

It’s a miracle she hears anything he’s saying. 

“It’s not  _ my _ theory,” she mumbles right back, and she can tell by the lovely, lovely sparkles in his blue eyes that it is exactly the reaction he wanted out of her. 

“Care to explain it either way?” 

She thinks she shakes her head then. He  _ is  _ annoying. This is far more than she ever signed up for. She just wanted to tease him, and now she is the one being teased. Truly a terrible turn of events. That doesn’t mean she can control the smile that tickles her lips. 

“Well,” she clears her throat, straightens her back, tries to appear very serious, “there are five traditional love languages.” 

“Yes,” he encourages her, smiling widely, “I’m all ears, Swan.” 

Her cheeks hurt from all of the smiling. It’s okay. He and his stupid big blue eyes are worth it. 

“Well, first, there are words of affirmation, like a loved one telling you they are proud of you or that they lo--...you know what I’m saying.” 

_ I’m a fan of every part of you, Swan.  _

And the thing is, she hears herself utter the words, and she does think that she does not sound like herself at all -- talking about love languages with Captain Hook -- but also Killian and she have been dating for the last couple of months now and this isn’t like anything she’s ever done before and maybe it isn’t so bad. 

“Interesting. Do go on.” 

In fact, it cannot even be remotely bad when he keeps staring at her like this, as if she is really precious and important and he cares  _ or something _ . 

“Then there’s quality time, like feeling loved when you’ve spent a precious and unique moment with a loved one.” 

_ Right now, we have a quiet moment.  _

“Mmm, I see.” 

“And then there are acts of service, and that goes without explanation.” 

_ I knew Bae as a boy. Perhaps I could talk to the boy. It would help him come to terms with his father’s passing. And me. _

“Fair enough.” 

“Then there are gifts, of course --” 

“Like the rose I offered you on our first date?” 

“-- like the rose you offered me on our first date --,” she repeats. Before a bucket of cold water is spilled on top of her head as she realizes what he’s just said and what she’s just agreed with. 

It’s a good thing the street light above their head is doing a poor flickering job because by the time Emma has pondered her own words and has reflected on how naturally Killian said that last line, well, she’s flushed a bright red. 

He doesn’t mean that  _ he _ , that _ they _ , that  _ she _ ...does he? 

An alarm rings inside Emma’s head.  _ Beware! Slippery slope of feelings ahead!  _

And instead of thinking one second more about this, Emma heaves a quiet breath, blinks, and exhales sharply: “-- yeah and the like.” As she looks up, she notices Killian’s smug grin. 

And something very soft, in his eyes, something very soft and terrifying. 

“What’s the last one?” he asks in a husky whisper as swirls of white vapor escape his mouth to kiss Emma’s lips. 

She gulps. Exhales. “Physical touch.” 

By the time she says the words, he is hovering dangerously close to her, and his hand is slipping into her hair, curling around the base of her neck, and the tingles it diffuses all over her skin are simply illegal. 

“Like that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

She nods, lips tight, unable to breathe. What is he doing to her? 

“Like that, yeah.” And if her voice is hoarse, the ocean breeze isn’t the only one to blame. 

His fingers slowly abandon her hair to find her lips, and he presses them, gently, above her open mouth and Emma’s hands have found his arms without her consent. 

And just as he dives towards her, heart pounding, courage roars inside of her and she dares ask once again: “So?” 

It makes him stop, gaze seriously at her, eyes open wide. She swallows again. 

“So, what?” he answers, and he almost sounds angry. 

The lust she sees dancing in his eyes tightens each of her muscles. 

“What’s your love language?” she repeats, bites her lower lip. 

She isn’t flinching. She started this. She wants to win. 

He smiles, fingers caressing down her neck to find her collarbone, and although she shudders she feels victory stretch her lips. 

“I’m a pirate, love. I don’t choose between treasures. I take them all.” 

As if to seal his words, his mouth hungrily finds hers, and he drinks her breath, and Emma lets herself be defeated in her heart only, but surely not aloud. 


End file.
